


Falsifying Tongues

by TheArchaeologist



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff and Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jaskier | Dandelion Has a Past, Jaskier | Dandelion Needs a Hug, M/M, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Some angst, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:02:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25319497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheArchaeologist/pseuds/TheArchaeologist
Summary: The stinging sound of a backhanded slap catches his attention, and as his head whips around towards the source, Geralt is abruptly introduced to Jaskier’s father.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 52
Kudos: 1101





	Falsifying Tongues

The backhanded slap rings loud across the crowded market, and Geralt’s head jerks upwards, sharp eyes locking onto the two figures crowded together at the entrance of an alleyway, one standing tall while the other slowly brings a hand up to their cheek.

They had not planned on staying in the town long.

In fact, they had not planned to stay at all.

The last number of weeks have been spent tirelessly trekking northwards, following the worn paths and floating stories of some gargantuan beast running rampant up the Continent, leaving a trail of destruction and loss in its wake. Their pace had been fast, more so than their usual stroll through the kingdoms, hurried with the hopes of catching up and slaying the creature before more destruction and chaos could be caused.

Geralt is no stranger to hard graft. His line of work demands it, requiring the will to spend an entire year on the road, foraging and hunting and negotiating the frosty reception of humans who hate him as much as they need him. He needs the gritted determination to go marching through swamps and clamber up mountains, seeking the local pests and razor-toothed monsters terrorising the very same village who refused him a room.

Then, he needs the reserved energy to fight, because his job is far from over when he finally locates the den. Only on the rarest of occasions does he ever find the monster sleeping, leaving it open to attack and an end met with one quick slice. More often than not, Geralt is forced to duel the fucking thing for hours at a time, dodging every thrown trick and deception that gets shoved in his face, be it hot fire, scorching acid, piercing shrieks, or claws able to snap bone in two with a single swipe.

It is gruelling work, the type nobles will never know and peasant-folk will constantly underestimate and underpay, however Destiny as decided this is his lot in his life, and he ploughs on through, ignoring the ache of his muscles and the weariness of his bones.

Yet, even for someone as hardened as him, the past near month has been a lot.

They were constantly bumping into victims of the attacks, grief burdened heavy in their eyes which was quick to ignite into anger at his lateness, at his inability to stop the creature before it could ruin their crops, their homes, their lives, and whisk away vast numbers of unfortunate souls in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“Fucking Witcher!”

“Fat lot you were!”

“Try and actually do your job next time!”

Jaskier would hum softly, whenever the barbed jabs became particularly pointed, and carefully take Roach’s reigns beneath her chin to steer them around the outskirts of whatever backwater settlement it was. 

“Come on,” He would say, “Let’s just go.”

There were no nights spent at inns, during their feverish scramble up the Continent. Without taking other jobs, Geralt could not afford it, and Jaskier’s money came from the very townsfolk seeing them off. Coin pouches were swiftly becoming empty and light, and the usual little luxuries they indulged in on the road (the sweet treats Jaskier sometimes picked up, the apples Roach enjoyed, the soft lather soap that felt as smooth as silk on the skin) had to be dropped for the basic, bland necessities.

For most of the year, camping is a fine sport, and by now Geralt’s back is well-worn to the lumps of twig and earth that gather beneath his bedroll, however after so many days of furious marching, going on minimal sleep and fumbling through a poor supply of dwindling rations, they may as well have sought rest on the hard earth without the blankets, for all the comfort the thin material could offer them.

Jaskier did not complain about it once, keeping pace with Roach with a small but persistent smile, plucking at his lute when the waves of mourning hit against their backs and whittling through absent observations every time the clouds turned dark with the promise of heavy, unpleasant rain.

At night, though, when the bard was hugged warm against Geralt’s chest, his shoulders rising and falling rhythmically and lost to the world of slumber, Geralt’s gaze would trail over the dark circles beneath his eyes, as plain as anything to see, and the stiffness with which he would hold his limbs, pliant to any kind of offered comfort and relaxation as the muscles undoubtedly screamed. He was grubby, as well, they both were, neither in the frame of mind to pause to bathe in a stream or river after watching another household bury a loved one, after stumbling across another set of small graves lining the roadside.

If he happened to be picking them as they walked, Jaskier would lay a set of flowers of the dirt mounds, a bright splash of colour against the indifferent brown.

Then, they caught up to the monster, and the whole thing turned out to be a hoax.

A stupid, hideous hoax.

Thinking about their reputation alone, a group of brigand vagabonds had caught themselves a royal wyvern and used it to terrorise towns and villages as they set about looting the place, collecting personal treasures and sentimental items to sell on or melt down, adorning themselves with anything that they took a particular fancy to. They seemed unaffected by the sounds of screams they must have surely heard and laughed around a fire at the faces of those who tried to flee, only to be caught at the last moment and slain.

There were eight of them, in total, dragging with them a huge cage that reeked of the kind of magic that could control something as strong-willed as a royal wyvern, summoning it back to is uncomfortable enclosure once they were done with their needless slaughter.

From fucking Caed Myrkvid Geralt and Jaskier had travelled, believing a wild beast was mindlessly attacking and killing, only for it to be a group of sadistic, remorseless nobodies seeking fame and respect.

Countless were dead from their greed.

Geralt was swift in delivering their deaths.

They knew exactly who killed them, they knew why, and Geralt ensured regret flashed in their eyes before they kissed the metal of his blade, just enough for guilt to be the very last emotion they would ever experience.

He set the wyvern free, the group had camped far enough away from any settlement that he could safely do so, and then left the corpses for the scavengers of the forest, trailing slowly back towards his own campsite and the warm, inviting arms of Jaskier, who frowned up at him with a beseeching gaze, trying to understand the turn of events.

“Bastards.” Jaskier hissed into the crook of his neck, and Geralt pulled him closer, running his fingers through the greasy, unkept hair.

“I know.”

They were exhausted, both mentally and physically, and it is all either of them could do to fumble up a meagre, watery stew and collapse onto the bedrolls, listening to the soft sounds of Roach, equally as tired, munch on grass and flick her tail.

Together, they slept long into the next morning.

Visiting the town had not been a choice. This far north, they had wandered dangerously close to Blaviken territory, an area where even Jaskier’s jaunty songs could not penetrate the coldest of hearts with his overloaded tales of heroics and adventure. The need for food, however, was just as strong as the need to go unnoticed, and they could only last so long on the supplies they had before they would both crash and burn.

“We dive in, we dive out.” Jaskier hummed, knelt behind Geralt so he could plait his hair back into a tight braid, the idea being that, thanks to the drizzle which had set in with the threat of growing harsher, he could keep his hood up and go mostly unnoticed. “You get everything for Roach, I’ll lay on the charm in the market, try and get us some bread and meat.”

“And-”

“ _And_ all the lovely brains and guts your potions need, yes I know.” He huffed, finishing off the braid with Geralt’s usual hair tie. After a moment, he adds, “I’ll take my lute with me as well, see if anyone wants some music for a while. We desperately need to start getting some income again.”

“What happened to dive in, dive out?”

Jaskier flicked his shoulder. “ _You_ dive in, dive out, _I’ll_ try and stop us from starving completely. If I get enough, we could get a room with a bed and a bath. Imagine that, Geralt, I could smell like a person again!”

They had not planned to stay in town long, just enough to get them on their sore feet again, just enough to get them a decent distance from Blaviken and all the ill-will that festered like a disease among its occupants and neighbours.

All they needed was an hour, two at the most, and an opportunity for Jaskier to play a couple lively tunes ( _not_ Witcher related) to get a flash of copper thrown his way while Geralt slunk back to camp. People would barely raise an eyebrow at their presence, and they would be forgotten come the evening.

At the sight of the market, they split, setting off for their individual tasks.

An hour or two was all they wanted.

Thirty minutes in, that all comes crashing down.

Geralt stands frozen beside the blacksmith fixing up a new bit for Roach, the old one having worn to the point where it will obviously break given the right tug or pull. The man is saying something to him, going on about price and materials, however the words are lost as he stares fixated on Jaskier, the bard’s head turned sharply as he wears an expression so unreadable it almost startles Geralt.

Jaskier is not the open book many assume him to be, squirrelling thoughts and feelings away beneath bright smiles and a positive attitude. However, he is not completely closed off, either, and he has never been able to hide absolutely everything from Geralt’s keen gaze. 

Geralt’s refusal to see what was right in front of him was the reason why it took so long for them to become _official_ , as Jaskier put it, not because it was not there.

His hand on his cheek, Jaskier slowly straightens to set his jaw at the man in front of him, and for the first time Geralt notices him as well, notices the sharp cheekbones, the slight wave to his deep brown hair peppered with grey, the striking blue of his eyes.

The likeness is near uncanny.

Jaskier does not speak about his family, the same way Geralt keeps his lips tight on his Mother. There is simply an unsaid, understood thing between them that those living in their pasts hurt and have no business protruding into their present, and are therefore dutifully ignored.

Still, the title _Viscount_ has found its way into their dialogue several times, as well as _suffocating_ and _running away._

Geralt is moving before he realises.

“After all this time, _here_ is where I find you?” Jaskier’s Father is huffing, his lips curled into something thin and furious. He gestures Jaskier up and down. “And look at the state of you! You’re a mess. When was the last time you cleaned, washed your clothes, hell, even just brushed your hair?”

Jaskier drops his hand from his cheek, the large, palm-sized slap mark stark against his pale skin. His Father is wearing a ring, Geralt spots, which has left a small cut just beside his nose.

At his silence, Jaskier’s Father bristles, settling into a series of questions which have clearly been brewing for quite some time. “Do you know what hoops your Mother and I had to jump through to cover for your foolishness? What excuses we had to fabricate just to keep our position in court?”

Neither notice Geralt striding towards them, Roach’s bit forgotten, the blacksmith calling confused after him.

Jaskier’s Father stands a head taller than his son, staring down with such an intensity that any weaker man would have burned alive. To Jaskier’s credit, he does not flinch from the intensity being pinpointed onto him, simply holding his jaw set, his hands fisted tightly at his side.

“I’ve had people come up to me saying they believed they saw you working as a travelling _bard_.” His Father continues. “We had to lie, say there seemed to be someone with a similar image wandering around, laugh it off as a joke. You’re of noble blood, royal when we trace our lineage, yet here you are, acting no better than a glorified-”

“Is there a problem?” Geralt rumbles lowly, stepping up behind Jaskier to scowl dangerously.

Jaskier leans back into him a little, swallowing. “Just a little misunderstanding.”

“Julian.” His Father growls through grit teeth, eyes darting up at Geralt before quickly snapping back. “ _Enough_. You’ve had your fun, you’ve had your adventure, now it’s time for you to grow up and take responsibility.” His voice turns, strangely, soft, as if he were trying to coax a nervous cat over with gentle words and a saucer of creamy milk. “We’ve kept your room as you left it, and Eleena is still available, you liked Eleena, remember? You were always running off together. Everything is waiting for you-”

“No.” Jaskier cuts in firmly, crossing his arms. “Absolutely not.”

Any rising hope in his Father’s eyes diminishes, the potential flickering of love and a parent’s pride extinguishing beneath disappointed anger. “ _Julian-_ ”

“No, I’m not going anywhere with you. I have my life, I have everything I need, I don’t intend on leaving it.”

“This isn’t a game, you’re heir-”

“Denounce me, then.” Jaskier suggests breezily. “Claim someone else as your heir. You always liked my cousin, why not him? I’m never going to claim my inheritance, and even if I did, I’d just hand it away again.”

His Father’s mouth moves up and down, spluttering, “ _Hand it away_ …You ungrateful brat! Do you have any idea how long those lands have been in our family, how much these people,” He flings an arm out to gesture to the town around them, “Would pay just to have an ounce of the luxury you've _delighted_ in all your life?”

“I probably have more of an idea that you.” Jaskier snips, indicating to his ragged appearance. “Considering.”

“Yes, because I’m sure life with a _Witcher_ is one of hardship. How much do people pay him out of fear, hundreds, thousands? Tell me, does he simply throw women from their beds if there’s no room at the inn or keep them there as sheet warmers instead?”

Geralt snatches Jaskier’s arm before he has the chance to bound forward and strike the man, drawing him back with a deep, low growl. Jaskier wiggles for his freedom, however Geralt has seen enough scrambled barfights to know that the bard is far from ready to let the subject go and therefore be released.

His Father’s eyes flicker between them again, and while there is a small, healthy note of fear within them at the mutant holding his son back, there is also something hurt, as well, at his wayward offspring’s complete rejection, which manifests into a cruelty Geralt suspects runs through the man like a jagged, splintered fault line.

“Oh, I see, maybe not _lady_ bedwarmers, then. This is disgraceful, Julian, you really gave up your position for this?”

“It’s better than anything you ever offered me.” Jaskier says, tone clipped.

“I offered you the world, boy, it was you who threw it back in my face.”

“The world from my window, I seem to recall.”

“Only because you-”

“Jaskier.” Geralt interrupts, because if he was to leave them as they were, then he suspects this meaningless back-and-forth would continue for the rest of the day, and it will only upset the bard all the more later. “Let’s leave.”

Instantly forgetting the man in front of them, Jaskier twists under his grip to stare at him, frowning as he counters with a shake of his head, “Geralt, the supplies-”

“There’s other towns, we have enough yet.”

“I’m not-” Jaskier’s Father tries to interject, only to be talked over by his son.

“But Roach’s bit. You said that-”

“I know, but she can go without for a few days. She has before.”

Jaskier does not like it, he can tell by the way he bites the inside of his cheek and taps his fingers against his thighs, however, after a moment he sighs, pinching at his nose before reluctantly nodding. “Ok, a few more days, we can do that.”

“Come on.” Looping an arm firmly around his shoulders, Geralt starts to steer them away.

Jaskier’s Father stammers over a few meaningless words that result in little, taken aback at the sudden dismissal. For a second, he makes a quick aborted hand gesture, as if he had intended to reach out and grab onto Jaskier to pull him back and continue where they left off. Although he does not follow through with the motion, Geralt guides Jaskier well out of arm’s reach anyway, glaring out of the corner of his eye.

For the briefest, slimmest of moments, he believes this might just be the end of it, that they will head their separate ways with no more drama to rile the bard more than he already is. Jaskier is going to be up most of the night mulling this all over, Geralt can tell by the way his spine hunches, he needs no more fuel for his fire.

Behind them, a voice calls, “ _Julian-_ ”

If Geralt had the time to chew it over, he might say that the voice of Jaskier’s Father sounded dejected, wounded, the sound of a parent realising that they may never see their child again.

“Give my love to Mother.” Is all Jaskier offers, not so much as glancing over his shoulder. Geralt tightens his grip, rubbing his thumb over the material of his travel-stained doublet, and Jaskier raises a hand to squeeze back in return.

There is a pause, and they are nearly far enough away for Geralt to deem them safe, for them to be free from the tense atmosphere of the alleyway and able to walk off the worst of Jaskier’s lowered mood.

“Your Mother,” His Father spits, every vicious curl of bleak emotion channelling fully into this one statement, “Is _dead_.” 

Jaskier freezes.

Geralt inwardly snarls.

_Fuck._

Multiple eyes gawk their way as he hefts the bard over his shoulder, wincing at the loud, increasingly creative string of curses, swears, insults, and threats his lover throws shamelessly in his Father’s direction, every ounce of understanding between them now broken beyond any hope of repair. His fists thump against Geralt’s back, his feet kick as if he were physically beating his Father with his words, and his voice pitches high with hurt, despair, and untamed fury.

Even after they have turned several corners and Jaskier’s voice runs thin and raspy, he continues on, lowering the volume from a screech to a seething tumble of rushed words. He stops failing wildly, however Geralt can feel every agitated shift and push, the slight shiver of his arms and the light shudder of his shoulders.

He dumps Jaskier back onto his feet behind a building on the outskirts of town, quickly grabbing him when he sways, refusing to meet Geralt’s eyes.

There are tears streaking down his face, brushing gently over the mound of a slowly blackening bruise, and while his mouth is pulled thin and his breathing harsh, his bottom lip also wobbles, and it is all Geralt can do to envelope him into his arms and shush him softly.

Jaskier makes a small, pained noise, and buries himself into his filthy clothes.

“Sorry.” He murmurs after a moment. “I shouldn’t have…I just _saw him_ and thought-”

“It’s fine.”

“I didn’t get much in the way of food. _Bollocks_ , sorry, I should’ve just ignored him and-”

“He’s your father, I understand.”

“It’s just…He…”

Setting his chin on Jaskier’s head, feeling the greasy locks curl around his jaw, Geralt hums, “I get it, Jaskier. Don’t apologise.”

It is not often Geralt gets to relate to someone else’s situation. His life has been too varied and filled with monsters for that, not to mention an estranged childhood in a place with a larger graveyard than active Witcher count. Yet, with this, he can truly relate on a personal level, one that makes his chest ache with feelings he cannot decipher.

If Visenna waltzed down the path right now, he cannot say he would not react the exact same as Jaskier. He would want to talk, to say something, to see if anything had changed since that fateful day when everything in his life altered so harshly that he still gets emotional whiplash just thinking about it. If she were anything like Jaskier’s father, sharp and dismissive and unwilling to accept certain truths, Geralt would be unable to keep his temper bottled, his spirits rising like boiling water with each ignored statement and lack of answer.

Jaskier sniffs, and shuffles in Geralt’s grip.

“Geralt?”

“Hm?”

“Do you see that?”

Tilting his head, which is still perched on top of Jaskier’s despite their heights being somewhat similar, he slowly follows the bard’s line of sight towards the unattended carriage to the side of the main road into town, the single, dark horse bowing its head as the light drizzle starts shifting into spots of rain.

He hums in confirmation. “What about it?”

“It’s my Father’s.”

Geralt stills. “Jaskier.”

“I’m not going to do anything _terrible_ , don’t worry, I’m just-”

“ _Jaskier_.”

“Roach is tired, right?” Jaskier glances up at him, apparently perfectly happy to remain warm in Geralt’s arms. “And if we’re going to be on the move for a bit longer, she’ll be exhausted if she has to carry us both, not to mention all our stuff.”

This is true, and the bastard of a bard knows it. Unhappy, Geralt nods once.

A slow, sly smile perks up Jaskier’s lips. “How’d you fancy another horse?”

He snorts. “Not going to take the whole carriage while you’re at it?”

“We travel through forests, Geralt, on tiny animal trails.” Patting his chest, Jaskier talks slowly, as if explaining this to a child. Geralt tightens his arms in response, trapping him instead of just holding him, and Jaskier snickers. “I’m thinking practically! Don’t punish me!”

“That’s rare. Maybe I should get your head checked.”

Pushing him away, Jaskier scoffs, flicking him on the arm. “After so many monsters, _you’re_ the one who probably needs their skull examined. Now enough, come help me be even more of a disappointment to my Father."

Sighing as Jaskier goes marching off purposefully towards the horse, Geralt shakes his head fondly, following with a slight smile he will deny and warmth in his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Hell hath no fury like a feral bard ready to steal some shit
> 
> [Tumblr](https://ancientstone.tumblr.com/)


End file.
